


Relics aka You're Bleeding Into Your Mashed Potatoes

by 9_of_Clubs



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Bucky in Wakanda, Cap Quartet, Family Feels, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nomad Steve Rogers, Pre-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), Protective Natasha Romanov, Sam Wilson Is a Good Bro, Sam and Nat and Steve on the Run, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, Steve has no self preservation skills, We were robbed of scenes like this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-27
Updated: 2019-10-27
Packaged: 2021-01-04 16:15:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21200489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/9_of_Clubs/pseuds/9_of_Clubs
Summary: There was a scene cut from IW where on-the-run Sam, Nat, and Steve are in hiding after a battle andSteve is bleeding into his mashed potatoes.Which is the most Steve Rogers thing ever, and we deserve, so I wrote it.--He thinks about telling Sam, for the millionth time, that he’ll heal. He thinks about that but also about how they’ve banned that sentence from their vocabulary.This is a democracy now.Sam had glared at him one afternoon, in a dusty basement, in some nameless desert, and Nat agreed with a raise of her brow, which you just don’t argue with. Even Steve knows that...Not that he hadn’t tried.





	Relics aka You're Bleeding Into Your Mashed Potatoes

He’s exhausted.

A bone tired weariness that he hasn’t felt in a long time, maybe not since the war itself, maybe. Trudging from one location to the next like they are, one fight to the next, never an end in sight, it takes a toll, even if they can’t stop, won’t stop, don’t want to, it wears them down. 

(Except on occasion, his mind wanders, just for a minute, to the bright glimmer of sun soaked land, the hum of a rushing river, clean, bubbling water, dancing over stones, and a figure with a half smile standing there as he watches, face turned back towards him, whispering something like _ home. _)

He’s reached into the fridge without thinking, cells acting on autopilot to find something that will restore them. There’s pain, maybe, somewhere, but the ravaging cycle of half-hearted pause, then restlessness, the need to do _ something _always surfacing, followed by that something, which usually means people shooting at them and never means anyone happy to see them, which usually means more layers of bruises, has left it little more than background noise.

There’s a fork in his hand, food in his mouth he can barely taste, and a touch more brain power restored before he realizes they’re both staring at him. Nat’s face is impassive, but he’s learned to read her non-expressions enough to see there’s a tiny smile playing at the corner of her lips and Sam is sighing in outright exasperation, because he never hides anything for very long, except what he does hide, which Steve never sees, until it leaks out around the edges. They’re a motley crew, but they’re _ there. _

The two of them share one of _ those _looks and then turn it back at him. As though their self preservation skills have any room to talk at all. He huffs, a touch of defensiveness and a faint brush of blush the beard hides heating his cheeks, a relic of a self that he hasn’t been in months. 

“Look man,” Sam starts and he’s crossed the room in slow, ambling steps, hand pressing against Steve’s shoulder and pushing him in overly telegraphed movements, which Steve allows, down into one of the mismatched chairs in the too-small kitchen. It buckles a little under his weight, creaks but doesn’t give. “I know this place is a shit hole, but I’d love it anyway, if you did me one little favor, and didn’t get blood all over my kitchen.” The last words are grimacing and pointed, like there’s periods after every word, gruff, but there’s that ever present worry, softer, beneath them. 

Blood. He blinks, and Sam raises a brow, cocking his head to stare at the mashed potatoes, still in his hands. The white spuds and pools of fake butter are smeared with something scarlet, mixing together in garrish combination. And all at once the scent is dizzying to him in the air, metallic and rusty, twisting into the cold, day-old linger of powdered potatoes. 

_ My fingers are smeared too _ . The thought crosses his mind idly. _ It’ll heal. _

“You’re bleeding into your mashed potatoes.” Sam repeats, and he gently pries them away, sets them down. “Which, firstly, I made, fresh from the box, so show a guy a little respect. And secondly, is a sentence I never want to say again, so do _ not _ make me repeat it.”

He thinks about telling Sam, for the millionth time, that he’ll heal. He thinks about that but also about how they’ve banned that sentence from their vocabulary. _ This is a democracy now. _Sam had glared at him one afternoon, in a dusty basement, in some nameless desert, and Nat agreed with a raise of her brow, which you just don’t argue with. Even Steve knows that, not that he hadn’t tried. Because there’s thing he just doesn’t do either. But he knows. Now, they always out vote him, at least where it doesn’t count. Or it counts, but he doesn’t get those parts of it that well, not anymore. 

And even if he’ll heal, it won’t undo the stains on the fork, or the floor, or in the food, which is a pragmatic reason he can get behind. 

It won’t lift the scent of the iron from the room, won’t stop it from pervading into their lungs.

Not that it ever lifts for that long. 

Still. The defensiveness drains with a sigh, which Sam can see, because he’s up and rummaging for the first aid kit, tossing the potatoes into the sink as he goes. And Nat sits down, eyeing them both, her hint of smile just a little hintier, which Sam used to tell her was creepy, but they both know is more protective than anything. Sam puts water in a kettle and starts it boiling, and slides down into another creaky chair to roll up Steve’s sleeve, and unbelievably, after a few more minutes pass, a few afternoon rays of sunlight slide into the kitchen as the day drifts by, dust motes dancing brightly, lighting up the ugly, dirty tile gold. 

He thinks, again, for a moment, of the sun, of water, and laughter, and life. Inhales and exhales. The kettle humming behind him, low sounds from the street emanating into the air.

He’s exhausted. But they’re there. They go on.


End file.
